


I Have Nothing

by octothorpetopus



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, POV Rafael Barba, Pre-Rafael Barba/Dominick "Sonny" Carisi Jr., Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:26:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28328961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/octothorpetopus/pseuds/octothorpetopus
Summary: Oscar-winning actor Rafael Barba is a notorious jackass and certified bachelor with 2 secrets: he’s gay, and he’s exhausted of the spotlight. He’s only got two real friends in the entire world, and when you throw in a stalker on top of that, it’s like the world is collapsing around him. The one bright spot is his new bodyguard, Sonny, whose cheerfulness and incessant optimism are not grating, but just might be the thing Rafael needs to save himself.
Relationships: Rafael Barba/Dominick "Sonny" Carisi Jr.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16
Collections: Barisi Holiday Exchange 2020





	I Have Nothing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mforpaul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mforpaul/gifts).



Deep in the Hollywood Hills, a black Mercedes-Benz sedan pulls into a parking garage attached to an unassuming gray-brown concrete building. In the car is a man in his mid-40s, wearing sunglasses although the sky is drawn over with gray clouds, and in the distance, thunder sounds. He is wearing the sunglasses partially to obscure his identity, and partially because he is hungover. The Mercedes pulls into a parking spot, and the man in the driver’s seat lets his head fall back against the headrest. His eyes flick over to the passenger seat, where a half-dozen tabloids are scattered. He is on the cover of all of them. One is of him getting coffee on Thursday, two were taken as he left various clubs last weekend, and the final three were taken on the set of his latest project. All of them are surrounded by speculations surrounding everything from his favorite drink (whiskey) to his religion (formerly catholic, currently agnostic). He should be used to it by now, after winning 3 Emmys and being nominated for an Oscar, seeing his own face pop up on every crappy celebrity pseudo-news source, but he still pays the $1.25 every time one crops up. The most recent purchase, featuring one of the post-party photos, he bought ten minutes ago on his way over. It is Saturday morning, and he is here, as he is every Saturday, to do the one thing that most actors of his caliber refuse to do—he is here to see his psychiatrist. 

The interior of the office is as plain as the exterior. He sits in the waiting room, which is on the third and highest floor, and empty except for him and a quiet, sleek-looking receptionist. On the table beside him are more of the tabloids that haunt him, but then again, this is Hollywood, tabloids are more common and more popular than actual newspapers. The door to the main office opens, and his head snaps up.

“Good morning, Rafael.” Dr. George Huang stands in the doorway, smiling curiously.

“Morning, doc,” Rafael replies, and takes off his sunglasses at last, wincing at the bright fluorescent lighting in the waiting room. He follows Dr. Huang into the office, which is less severely lit.

“How have you been?”

“Oh, you know. Fine.”

“Really?” The good doctor seems skeptical, but then, he always does. Rafael is pretty sure it’s just a permanent setting for him.

“Yes, really.”

“Because I’m fairly certain there’s a newspaper out there that features a rather prominent image of you cursing out a castmate earlier this week.”

“First of all, calling that thing a newspaper is an insult to actual newspapers everywhere. Second of all, it’s not my fault that I work with an insufferable prick.”

“Is he just a general insufferable prick or is there something specific he did to warrant your wrath?”

“Are you seriously writing this down?”

“Rafael, that is literally my job description.”

“Yeah, yeah. Anyway, he’s a jackass and a homophobe. Enough said.”

“Is that enough said? Was it directed at you, or someone else?”

“Someone else.”

“...would you care to elaborate?” Rafael sighs.

“There’s a gaffer onset who’s very obviously-” he shrugged. “-you know. And my ‘castmate’, as you’d call him, made a crack I didn’t appreciate. So yes, I cursed him out, and he deserved it.”

“You’re not worried that cursing him out for a homophobic joke might blow your cover, so to speak? Or have you blown said cover in the last week?” Laughing humorlessly, Rafael shakes his head.

“Let’s put it this way: if I had ‘blown my cover’, you’d have seen it somewhere in that trash you have stashed out there.” Dr. Huang’s smile turns sardonic.

“I don’t actually read those, you know. Too many of my patients are featured, and I prefer to hear the stories from you rather than the paparazzi.”

“Well, that’s nice to hear. But considering that I won the GLAAD Ally Award last year, I think I’ve managed to convince everyone on earth that I am in fact a certified heterosexual.”

“Good, then, I assume. If you want to remain in the closet, that’s entirely your business. Your temper, however, is a different story.”

“I don’t have a temper.”

“This is the fourth colleague you’ve gotten into a public argument with this year. It’s July.”

“And they all provoked me.”

“Do you know why you’re so angry all the time, Rafael?” Suddenly, he is at a loss for words.

“I assume you’re about to tell me.” Jokes make for easy cover, and Rafael is quick enough on his feet that he can usually manage with jokes rather than honest conversation. Not here, though. Dr. Huang can always see right through him.

“No, I’m not. I’m asking, because in the three years you’ve been coming to see me, I haven’t been able to understand it. You’re angry at me, you’re angry at the film industry, you’re angry at the media, you’re angry at your colleagues, and you’re angry at yourself. I think understanding that anger is going to help you understand why you’re so discontent with your life.”

“Who says I’m discontent with my life?”

“You did. Last week.”

“Oh.”

“Do you want to leave Hollywood, Rafael?” Rafael scoffs and stands up. He starts pacing, which he usually does after about ten minutes of psychoanalysis, and continues until the end of the hour.

“And do what? I could go to New York, I guess. I’ve always thought Broadway might be nice.”

“No, I don’t mean Broadway. I mean, have you considered quitting show business? Moving up to that cabin in the Catskills you’re always telling me you never have time to visit?”

“I don’t know if I could do that. I really don’t. I don’t know who I am if I’m not acting, you know? I was smart enough in high school I could have done anything I wanted, but I went to acting school and then I came out to L.A. and I got cast after my first audition, and then I did that show for twenty-two years. I made one movie, got nominated for an Oscar. I’m making my second-ever major motion picture right now, and I’m getting buzz even though it hasn’t come out yet.”

“And that’s… good? Bad?”

“No, you see, that’s the thing.” Rafael sits again and tugs at his beard, which is only just starting to gray. “I don’t know. I’ve never done anything else. Yeah, I’m a little sick of seeing my own face everywhere I go, and hiding behind the women my own manager picks out for me to ambiguously ‘befriend’, but how do I know that whatever I do next isn’t going to be worse? That it won’t just leave me bored? I give film a lot of shit, but at least it’s never boring.”

“And you’d rather be exhausted than bored?”

“Well, yes.” The room goes silent except for the low buzz of Dr. Huang’s air conditioner and Rafael’s own breathing, which is astronomically loud in his ears. 

“I can’t tell you whether you’d be bored without acting. It’s not my job, and I also just don’t know. But anyone, not just a Harvard-educated psychiatrist, could tell you that you very simply are not happy right now.”

“Well, as a Harvard-educated actor, I can tell you that you have no idea how I’m feeling. It’s called acting.”

“You’re an excellent actor-”

“Thank you.”

“-sometimes. On screen, for sure. Even when you’re just about town. But when it comes down to acting versus psychology, psychology will always win.” Rafael really hates therapy. Dr. Huang is nice, sure, one of the only people that he thinks really gives a damn what happens to him outside of his work, but psychoanalyzing his anger just seems to make him even angrier. The cabin in the Catskills sounds nicer every day, but every time he starts to look up ticket prices for a plane to New York, something in him reminds him to stick it out, see his dream through. Dreams are for suckers, he decided a number of years ago. Even so, he can’t convince himself to leave.

“Have I ever told you about Richard Graham?”

“I recognize the name.”

“He’s an old friend. We came out here together. He was a writer on my show for a while, but he was too good for it, so he left to go make movies. Almost won an Oscar when he was 27. And do you know why he didn’t, and you don’t know who he is?”

“Why’s that?”

“In the late nineties, Richie had an affair with an actor on one of his projects who was a good two decades older and married. The paparazzi managed to snap a picture of them, so to save his reputation, his career, and his marriage, the actor sold Richie out and told everyone that he was ‘attacked’ by Richie, whose advances he of course rejected.” Rafael scoffs. “Even today, I wonder how people believed it. Anyway, they did, and Richie stopped getting offers. He stopped getting invited to parties. Every ounce of success he had just-” He draws a line across his throat.

“What happened to him? Where is he now?”

“Made enough money on his first couple of projects to get himself a nice big house in Anaheim.”

“Does he still write?”

“He ghostwrites. He’s the best writer since Billy Wilder, anyone who has the ability to take credit for what he does is going to.”

“Okay. What does Richard Graham have to do with why you won’t leave Hollywood?” 

“He was forced out for the very same thing I’ve spent my entire life hiding just to stay a part of the club. I’m sure if he could, he would have stayed, and he’d have a dozen Oscars by now. To leave now, of my own accord, just because I don’t feel like acting anymore? It seems like a betrayal.”

“That doesn’t sound to me like a thorough enough reason to stay. Not when it’s clearly taking such a toll on you.”

“It’s enough for me.” Rafael checks his watch. He doesn’t mean to be impatient, or short-tempered, but therapy makes him antsy. “I should go.”

“You’re paying me to listen for twenty more minutes.”

“I have an Oscar. I can afford it.” Dr. Huang raises his eyebrows but doesn’t protest.

“Take care of yourself, Rafael. And don’t get into trouble.”

“I never do.” Rafael winks. “See you next week, doc.”

“Next week it is.”

Outside, Rafael lets out a deep breath as he gets back into his car. He should have stayed for the last twenty minutes, it was truly stupid of him to leave, but he doesn’t like to talk about himself and he doesn’t like to talk about Richard Graham. Speaking of Richie, it’s been awhile since they saw each other. They speak at least once a week on the phone, but Rafael has been filming almost nonstop for the last two weeks and so they’ve fallen off. He’s not shooting today, though, and something in him refuses to go home. Too early for lunch, and definitely too early for the clubs. Richie’s only a half-hour drive from Dr. Huang’s office, which in California terms, isn’t half-bad. With one hand, Rafael backs out of the parking space, and with the other, he swipes the stack of tabloids off of the passenger seat and onto the floor.

Richard Graham lives in a skinny two-story bungalow hidden behind a cluster of California sycamore trees. The sun beats into the windows of the Benz as it pulls into the driveway, but just the drive away from L.A. has helped Rafael’s headache. Still, he dry-swallows a pair of Advil as he walks to the front door and rings the doorbell. Maybe he should have called first. Richard gets cranky when his writing is interrupted. But then he appears in the doorway, anything but cranky. He has a few inches on Rafael, and so Rafael must look up to see his shining blue eyes, but when he does, he forgets quite why he was so irritated this morning in therapy.

“Raf!” The screen door swings open and Rafael steps inside. He doesn’t need an invitation. “What are you doing here?”

“I was in town. Figured I’d drop by. See how your new project’s coming.” Richard rolls his eyes and Rafael follows him into the kitchen. He’s always liked Richie’s decorating style, the entire house done up in rich, velvety shades of deep blue and forest green. 

“You know I-”

“You don’t talk about projects until they’re done and you’ve been paid. I know. Thought maybe I could catch you enough by surprise that I might be able to wiggle it out of you.” Richard pours two cups of coffee and pushes one across the counter to Rafael. Rafael already had two cups on his way to Dr. Huang’s, but he accepts it anyway. 

“Why are you here? Really?”

“I don’t know.” Rafael shrugs and plays dumb. He’s an Oscar-winning actor. Playing dumb comes easily and nearly always works. Not with Richard. They’ve been friends since high school.

“Really? You don’t know?”

“I just…” It’s not even noon. “I’m wondering. If you could go all the way back to before college, before coming out here… would you do it again? Even if you knew you’d end up in exile?” Richard smiled, his dimples deepening under a beard streaked with significantly less gray than Rafael’s. 

“I’ve got a house, a project, and a date next Tuesday. I’m not a time traveler, Raf. I can’t tell you what I’d do if I knew, but that doesn’t matter because I can’t change it anyway. And neither can you. You’re stuck with me, old man.” Richard is actually older, by about four and a half months, but he doesn’t look it. Rafael stares down into the now-lukewarm cup of coffee. He can see his own reflection in it, and he looks tired. Tired and old. The editing team must touch him up before putting his face up on screen. Or maybe it’s the makeup team. Either way, this is not the face the rest of the world sees. 

“Right. Yeah. You’re right.”

“I know I’m right. Drink your coffee. It’s getting cold.”

“What are you, my mother?”

“If I was your mother, I’d tell you to stop drinking coffee altogether.”

“Probably right.” Rafael drinks the coffee, wincing as the bitter cold hits the back of his throat. 

“Definitely right. Are you shooting today?”

“No. I go back to set on Monday.”

“Two days off?” Richie whistles. “That’s like a whole month in Hollywood years.”

“You should take a break. You’re writing yourself to death.”

“And what better way to die? That’ll put a whole new spin on the word ‘ghostwriter.’” He is far more chipper this morning than Rafael has maybe ever seen him. They are both cynics, but they’re cynics together, and that makes the cynicism seem a little more positive. 

“Funny.”

“I always am.”

“You have a date on Tuesday?”

“Yes.”

“With who?”

“None of your business.”

“So I know him.”

“Nope.”

“Then tell me.”

“Also nope.”

“Rude.”

“Yep.” Rafael hesitates. 

“I was thinking…”

“You always are.”

“Shut up. I was thinking maybe I’m going to get out of town. For awhile. Clear my head.” To his credit, if Richard is surprised, he doesn’t show it. 

“Just like, what? A break?”

“Yeah. Or maybe. Maybe I’d make it permanent. You know?” As he speaks, he looks down into his coffee, watching his reflection warp past recognition.

“You’re quitting?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t made any decisions.”

“Okay. I mean, it’s your choice.” Richard smiles thinly, and Rafael can see the cynicism start to seep back into his eyes.

“I just-”

“Raf, really. It is. Look, I ought to get back to working, and-”

“Yeah. Of course.” Rafael pushes his coffee, only half-finished and lukewarm, back across the counter. “I’ll see you later, alright?”

“Absolutely.”

The sunlight seems harsher when Rafael walks back to his car, and he pulls his sunglasses back over his eyes. It’s hardly noon, which is frustrating, because he’d really like a drink, but instead he’ll pick up some takeout and eat it in a random park somewhere, like he always does on Saturdays after therapy. He picks a new park and a new restaurant every time so the paparazzi don’t find him. It’s a small comfort in an uncomfortable world. 

There are a series of clubs along Hollywood Boulevard that Rafael has frequented since his first glimpse of fame in his early 20s. He’s older now, but somehow, those clubs are more comfortable than even his own home, which seems too nice and too clean for a boy who grew up in the South Bronx in a building that wasn’t technically a walkup, but the elevator had broken when he was 3 and had never been fixed. The clubs are loud and hot and the drinks are too expensive for the quality, but what he’s learned is that the crowds that generate the heat and noise make it easy to disappear, and the drinks make it easy to stomach the knowledge that he has to disappear at all. Tonight, his selection is an EDM club called the Aquarium, with the bar stacked on top of a long fish tank. Rafael likes the blue light that spills out onto the street through the doors whenever the bouncers open them, which they always do for him. The small perks of fame. He stumbles out after almost three hours of dancing, just past 1 in the morning. He doesn’t have work tomorrow, so he can sleep off whatever hangover he has until mid-afternoon.

“Adios, Larry,” he says and waves to the bouncer, who waves back. The air isn’t cold, but it’s certainly cooler than the air inside, and a chill runs down Rafael’s back. He swallows, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. There is an alleyway running between the club and the convenience store next door, and he slips into it as he always does when leaving the Aquarium, to avoid being stopped on the street by a fan or the paparazzi or just someone not watching where they’re going. He does not see the silhouette standing at the end of it until he is almost all the way through. When he does, he stops. Rafael is a small man who hasn’t gotten in a street fight since he was maybe 16. This person, whoever they are, is much taller, much broader, and simply put, terrifying. As calmly as he can, Rafael turns on his heel and starts in the other direction, his heart stopping for a moment as he hears footsteps on the pavement behind him. As his footsteps quicken, so do those of the person behind him. He is nearly in a run as he gets closer to the sidewalk, where there are lights and people and a payphone where he can call the police because his cell is dead. He gets within three feet and then is yanked backwards by a hand with a firm grip on his shirt collar. He hears fabric tear, but it’s distant, like hearing it through a speaker. His vision goes white as his head slams against a brick wall, but he doesn’t go unconscious, even as his air is cut out by an arm across his throat. Whoever is holding him there is wearing a ski mask, and shrouded in the darkness of the alleyway looks like a shadow with a life and will of its own.

“Please-” he croaks, and the arm crushes his windpipe even harder.

“Shut up.”

“My wallet, it’s-”

“I don’t want your wallet.” For a moment, there is no sound except the cacophonous chatter on the street just six feet away. No one even bothers to glance down the alley as they pass, and Rafael feels something sharp press into his chest. “If you scream, I will gut you like a fish.” Frantically, he nods, and although his mind is racing for ideas, he comes up empty. “I don’t need anything from you. Not yet. This is just a message.” The knife against his solar plexus sinks in a millimeter more, not yet enough to draw blood, but enough to cause damage if he moves even an inch. “I know your clubs. I know your restaurants and your parks. I know Dr. Huang’s office. I know Richard Graham’s house.” His attacker’s voice lowers even further, and he leans in to whisper right into Rafael’s ear. “I know 1284 Monte Cielo Drive.” Rafael’s address. He gasps despite himself and the knife presses deeper. “If you tell the police… well, you get the idea, don’t you? Nod if you get the idea.” Rafael nods once and hopes he doesn’t look as scared as he feels. “Good. Now, you and I are going to walk to the end of the alley. If you run, you’re dead. If you scream, you’re dead.” Roughly, Rafael is yanked away from the wall and begins walking away from the lights and the people and the payphone. He could make a break for it, but he gets the feeling from the knife that is now pointed at the small of his back that his attacker is not an amateur. So he just walks, keeping his hands as steady as he can at his sides, and tries to ignore the sharp point in his back. 

“Can I go?” he asks when they reach the other end, a much quieter, much darker street.

“Remember. You scream, or call the police, or really just say or do anything-”

“I die. Got it.”

“And maybe don’t be such a fucking smartmouth when someone has a knife in your back.” The attacker pushes Rafael suddenly, sending him sprawling onto the sidewalk, then takes off at a brisk pace back to Hollywood Boulevard. Rafael watches him slip off his mask, never catching more than a glimpse of his face, and from that distance it means nothing. He slips both into his coat and disappears into the crowd, just another face. Rafael stands up and brushes himself off with shaky hands. His brand-new chinos are covered in dirt now, his shirt collar is ripped and there are a few drops of blood on it where the knife must have cut him, and, oh yeah, he has just been threatened at knifepoint, something that has happened to him exactly once, on a TV set, where he was being ‘stabbed’ with a plastic knife, and his attacker was a co-star who told him dirty jokes between takes. All of a sudden, he wishes he’d finished out the hour with Dr. Huang. He wishes he hadn’t gone to Richard’s house. Most of all, he wishes he’d gotten out of town when the idea first occurred to him six months ago. Rafael pulls his phone out of his pocket and tries to turn it on three times before remembering that it’s dead. Oh, well. His hands are too shaky to call anyone anyway. He puts his phone back in his pocket, straightens his shirt, and takes a deep breath. He will figure this out when he gets home, but there’s not a cab in sight, and it’s a long walk. A half hour at least. Then again, what choice does he have? Overhead, there are no stars, clouded out by the smog from the wildfires and the manufacturing plants and the light pollution. Rafael sighs and starts walking. He really does hate this town.


End file.
